


The Swan Song

by Seamless_Boundaries



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, God its so sad, He's crying, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, I'm crying, M/M, Mary Morstan and John Watson's Wedding, My little boi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft To The Rescue, Mycroft is a good brother, Mycroft will help him, Paiiiiiin, Protective Mycroft, Save Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess, So much paiiin, That episode is so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 10:06:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16083896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seamless_Boundaries/pseuds/Seamless_Boundaries
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is back at Baker Street, after leaving the wedding early. High as a kite, and hurt, he mourns his unrequited love. Mycroft, of course, barges in. But sometimes, it's brother's that keep each other right.This is after The Sign Of Three.***The title, 'The Swan Song' is based of the legend, that swans (which never really sing) sing beautifully and mournfully before their death. It is also used for 'a last tribute' or 'a final gesture'.





	The Swan Song

Taking the phone out from his pocket, Mycroft dialed Sherlock's number. He let the phone ring five times, then cut the call.

Sighing, he stepped out of his car. Anthea asked him a question, to which he replied with a murmur, not sure what the question was.

He stood before the door in front of him for a moment, as if bracing for the near future, and allowed himself inside, straightening the knocker subconsciously, entering 221 Baker Street. 

It was likely that Sherlock was already aware of his presence, and Mycroft's doubts were confirmed, as he found Sherlock with his violin, facing the window to which he stood closely.

He played a broken, sad tune, which occasionally bordered on noise as he clumsily played it, making a bad show of hiding his state. The room was dark, to say the very least, with only one lamp that provided any light, so that most of the room was illuminated only because of the moon.

He stopped briefly as Mycroft stepped in, and then continued. The brief pause was the only acknowledgement of Mycroft's presence.  
"Sherlock."

It was a tentative statement, and Mycroft was walking on unknown grounds, not sure how much Sherlock had used. He hoped he had come on time, and would be able to control the situation before it got out of hand.  
Sherlock did not respond at all, except for hitting a high note on the violin, which was almost a screech.

"I told you, caring is not an advantage."

Mycroft's voice was a tired sigh, all his efforts over the years gone in vain.

"And yet you chose to let sentiment cloud your brain. Still not _involved_ , I presume."

At this, Sherlock said nothing, but even from the feeble moonlight that fell on him, Mycroft could see his shoulders shaking.

Irritation clouded Mycroft's features as he said, "Get yourself together Sherlock! It's a choice you've made, and you have to face its consequences."

In Sherlock's mind, he was back to when he was little, and Mycroft stood tall in front of him, looking down at him with obvious disgust. _Tsk tsk Sherlock,_ he said, _Feeling again? Not clever, is it? You are ordinary after all, then. Stupid, like the other kids_.

 _I am not stupid, Mycroft, and certainly not a kid!_ Thought Sherlock, and he turned around, and said, his voice almost a shout, "I didn't choose, Mycroft. And I know that love is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"Unfortunately, Mycroft," His voice dropped it's strength as he went further down the sentence, and the last word was uttered with almost a whimper. "I lost."

Mycroft was taken aback for a moment. He had rarely seen his brother this passionate. But he chose to carry on slowly; Sherlock on drugs was a man with no control, or idea of control: he would act instantaneously, and powerfully.

Mycroft slowly walked towards him, as if approaching an animal; for an animal Sherlock was, wounded, hurt.

He turned another light on, so that it was bright enough to be able to see things clearly, but dim enough to hide the intensity of emotions. He would not need an extra aid in determining the state of his brother's mind.

Sherlock's eyes were rimmed with red from crying, and he looked tired; no, drained was the word, for it seemed as though a person has physically drained every ounce of will that he had.  
And then, once he had read the shock on Mycroft's face, and the little tinge of disapproval, he turned once again, to the windows, and resumed playing.

"Sherlock."

This time it was said in a flat, calm voice, and Mycroft went up to his brother, carefully taking the violin from his hand. Sherlock let him do it, and also let himself be guided to a chair.

Then, "Where is the List."

"The need hasn't arisen yet." Came the reply.

"But you know it will." Mycroft didn't say it in the way of a taunt,but simply as a fact they were both aware of.

Sherlock didn't reply, simply gazed into nothingness.

And suddenly, as if a thought had pushed him off the edge, he began sobbing, tears silently streaming down his face. Mycroft walked closer and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulders, because they weren't the type of siblings to indulge in intimate contact, such as embracing, were they?

And for a moment, he was back to when Sherlock was six, and him 14, comforting his younger brother over the loss of a friend.  
This time it was more that a friend Sherlock had lost.

"It hurts Mycroft. It feels as though I have been physically injured." And then, with the whimsical reasoning of a child, "Make it go away."

And then the seven year old child and the thirty six year old man dissolved into one, and Mycroft comforted both.  
"Let us talk about your problem. Perhaps that will lessen the sorrow." Mycroft spoke soothingly, as if to a child.

"I don't know, Mycroft. I don't know why I am sad. It's John's wedding, and he has a wife, and I should be happy, play the role of a best friend."

Mycroft attempted to nudge him further,  
"But you do not, I understand, feel for him as a best friend should. You feel something more." At this a sob, this time more audible escaped Sherlock.

Exasperated, Mycroft asked him, "What did you think, Sherlock, that John would be waiting for you when you came back, and you could pick up where you left off?" The last sentence had a touch of incredulity.

Sherlock looked up. Tears stained his face, and his eyebrows scrunched up to show his confusion.  
"Yes?"

His voice was soft, unsure, as if asking if it was the correct answer.  
"I told you to stay away from emotions, didn't I?"  
"I tried, Mycroft. I tried so hard."

"I know."

Then there was a silence, and Mycroft rubbed circles on Sherlock's back, something he had read, was useful to calm people down.  
"Mycroft, I tried to tell him," Sherlock's voice was a little unsteady, "When I said my best man's speech. I tried to tell him. But he couldn't listen."

"Or perhaps," Mycroft said, surprised that his brother was so oblivious, "He heard you. It was just too late."  
Sherlock thought about this for a moment, and then sliding his hands down his face, asked,  
"What do I do now?"

"Do you think you can stop?" His question was clear. _Can you stop loving him?_

"I wish I could. But I know I cannot."

The tears had stopped for the meantime, Sherlock was looking for the answerable desperately needed.

"Well, then it depends. You could sever all ties from him." But even as Mycroft suggested this, he knew when he looked into his brother's eyes- it would not be possible.

"Else," his voice was grave, like a judge declaring a death sentence, "If you love him enough, Sherlock, ensure that he and Mary lead a happily married life. It is the greatest, and perhaps, the last chance to express your love for him."

It was a perfect metaphor. A man on trial, waiting for death or life. Death, it seemed, was the final verdict, beyond negotiation.

Sherlock stood up, and looked into Mycroft's eyes, and nodded. He had accepted his fate.

His eyes looked so broken, Mycroft thought, and anger seared in his chest, and for a moment he contemplated physical harm to John Watson. He knew better, though, and distancing himself from Sherlock, prepared to leave.

But then, he stopped, withdrawing his hand from the doorknob, perhaps due to the fact that he could read his brother's mind so well. He turned around, and saw a flicker of hope on Sherlock's face: that his wish had been heard.

And then he suggested, in a low voice, "We can began our attempts for salvaging John's domesticity from tomorrow, can we not? Tonight, I think, we can reserve to mourn."

The affection in his voice surprised them both.  
With that he sat on the armchair, and Sherlock sat at the foot of it on the carpet, every notion of pride or dignity thrown to the wind.

He cried all night, a result of both pent up emotions and the drugs. He mourned his unrequited love, and it's extent, cried for the hurt it caused him, and for the hurt it was about to.

He despised these emotions: unwanted, uncalled for, and unforgiving by nature. They mercilessly tormented him, and brought him the greatest of joys all at once, and be wept because he could neither dare to hold onto them, not let go.

Eventually he fell asleep, exhausted, on the carpet.

 

The next morning he woke up in his bed, a blanket carefully arranged on him, his flat swept clean of drugs, as he would later find out.

On his nightstand lay only his phone, a cigarette and a silver lighter. His phone had received a solitary text from Mycroft.

_You will need it.- MH_

Sherlock knew that Mycroft was referring to the cigarette.  
He lay in bed, silently for a few minutes, his face sticky with the aftermath of tears, and lips dry and parched.

Picking up the lighter, he saw the flame come to life, and admired it for a few moments. Perhaps he could see beauty in things after all.

He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. It was a low quality, high tar, and it made him cough from the unfamiliarity, but it was perfect. It was strong enough to meet his needs.

He texted Mycroft, after he had finished.

_I am afraid that the power of the British government has declined, or at least your fortune has. Bad quality, and high tar. Do you want me dead, brother mine? -SH_

Less than a minute later, came the reply.

_Better this way than from heartbreak.- MH_

_Perhaps it is the better way out. - SH_

And then,

_When will you stop barging into my flat?-SH_

Without missing a beat, Mycroft replied.  
_An abnormal way of expressing gratitude, brother dearest. -MH_

_I know. -SH_

A few moments later, perhaps as an encouraging statement.  
_Into battle, then? -MH_

_Into battle.-SH_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked the story. Yes it is sad, and yes it broke my heart writing it.  
> Please feel free to give constructive criticism, and please tell me if you liked it.


End file.
